The Hunt for the Manhattan Mafia
by EliseRene
Summary: Matt is an agent looking for the infamous Manhattan Mafia - a group under suspicion of insider trading - and as Matt's first mission, he is going undercover. Mello is the boss of the Manhattan Mafia. The hardest part of being undercover, Matt soon discovers, is that you can get attached to your target. Slight AU: Matt is 10 years younger than Mello and Near, & L has died.
1. Chapter 1

**-Toronto, 7:52 am-**

[WELCOME TO CSiSNET DIRECT ACCESS TERMINAL. PLEASE ENTER COMMAND.]

 **login**

[PLEASE ENTER USER AUTHENTICATION]

 **sa_matt | goggleddgam3r96**

[AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE ENTER COMMAND.]

 **access 2121317-04**

[YOU ARE ATTEMPTING TO ACCESS A SECURITY LEVEL 4 (TOP SECRET) FILE.

PLEASE NOTE THAT ACCESS TO THIS FILE IS RESTRICTED TO PERSONNEL WITH LEVEL FOUR SECURITY CLEARANCE. CONTINUING WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORIZATION WILL RESULT IN DISCIPLINARY ACTION, UP TO AND INCLUDING IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF LIFE.

INFORMATION REGARDING YOUR ACCESS TO THIS FILE (INCLUDING THE DATE, TIME, AND LOCATION) WILL BE REPORTED TO THE RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION (RAISA).

IF YOU WISH TO CONTINUE, RE-ENTER YOUR USER AUTHENTICATION NOW.]

Matt sighed. He has only been at this new job for a week, and already the authentication procedures have become tedious to him. Without looking at the keys, he re-entered the information.

 **sa_matt | goggledggamer96**

 **WARNING**

[INCORRECT AUTHENTICATION: YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS TO ENTER THE CORRECT AUTHENTICATION, OR SECURITY WILL BE SUMMONED TO YOUR LOCATION.]

The sudden error beep from the computer made Matt jerk in his seat. "Shit," he grumbled, "a typo?" He hurriedly tapped the credentials.

 **sa_matt | goggleddgamer96**

 **WARNING: INCORRECT AUTHENTICATION**

"Still wrong?!" He panicked, studying the screen. "...Oh shit, 3 not e. God damn it."

 **sa_matt | goggleddgam3r96**

[AUTHENTICATION ACCEPTED. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PROJECT-SPECIFIC PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER (PSPIN)]

Matt sighed with relief and slumped back in the seat. False credentials are no laughing matter in the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

 **369-705-1429-015**

[PSPIN ACCEPTED. PLEASE LOOK INTO THE CAMERA FOR A RETINAL IDENTIFICATION SCAN.]

Matt turned to the camera.

[INCORRECT ORIENTATION. PLEASE ALIGN THE PUPILS OF YOUR EYES WITH THE GUIDELINES INDICATED ON THE SECONDARY SCREEN AND TRY AGAIN.]

"..." Matt blinked. "Oh, right." He quickly took off his goggles, placing them on the table.

[THANK YOU. THE TIME AND DATE OF YOUR ACCESS TO THIS FILE HAS BEEN LOGGED AND REPORTED TO THE RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION (RAISA).]

 **USER NAME:** S.A. Matt

 **TITLE:** Junior Supervising Programmer

DISPLAYING 369-705-1429-015, CLEARANCE LEVEL 4

"Finally!" Matt rubbed his eyes and reached for the coffee mug near the computer. It was already cold.

Alone in his cubicle, the redhead began researching the file that had been sent to him. His eyes skimmed the pages of words: an underground organization, informally nicknamed the "Manhattan Mafia," has been gaining ground recently by participating in various illegal trades and auctions on the black market. Particularly, the selling and buying of incredibly undervalued stocks, which are almost always guaranteed to shoot up in price - from 50% to 300%.

This was Matt's specialty.

The deep web is a galaxy of untouchable - well, mostly untouchable - websites whose IP addresses bounce off countless routers, making them the perfect tool for illegal internet activity. Matt knew this better than anyone, considering his involvement with the deep web landed him this job, but that's another story for another time.

For now, it was trying to locate and infiltrate this mafia group, by any means necessary. Matt cracked his knuckles and began to type.

 **-New York City, 11:38 am-**

The familiar sound of the lunch hour rush drifted through the streets of New York. Businesspeople and families alike, rushing here and there, constantly drifted past the inconspicuous ice cream parlor on the street corner. Occasionally, a child would pull their parents inside by the sleeve, demanding a mint chocolate cone.

A quirky blonde girl would happily give the child a cone and a smile. But of course, this ice cream parlor was not really an ice cream parlor.

A metal door slid open to reveal a large, telekill plated office. "Hey boss, I'm placing another order for Polar Bear Tracks and Beary Berry - just letting you know," the girl in the Polar Parlor apron, adorned with a standing cartoon polar bear holding an ice cream cone, said to the young man who was on the office phone.

The phone receiver was covered with a leather-gloved hand. "Elli, how many times did I tell you that you don't need to keep asking about the ice cream stuff?"

Elli shrugged, "I dunno, but that last time Mike ordered 18 pounds of cookie dough ice cream got you pretty mad, so I just wanted to keep you in the loop."

The young man, known to his allies as Mello, sighed and shooed Elli away with his hand. He returned to his phone call. On the other end of the line, the gruff voice of a customer continued the conversation.

"Are you certain of the timeline?" The voice inquired.

Mello nodded to the virtual prescience, "Yes. As it stands, a list of ticker symbols will be sent to you in 4 hours, give or take ten minutes."

There was a pause on the line, and then, "...And these purchases will result in capital gains?"

"I guarantee it personally, my friend." Mello unwrapped a chocolate bar, "in 4 hours you will receive the stocks, and in 24 you will be rich." With this, the blond hung up and walked over to the wall. Then he walked over to the door, locked it, thrice, and returned to the wall again. Sliding his hand over the surface, he waited patiently for the keypad to emerge.

2-1-2-1-0-6-6-3-9

The keypad beeped, but nothing happened. A prompt to continue.

5-3-4-3-0-5-4-2-5-1-2-1-9

Upon entering the second combination, a small camera emerged. Mello allowed it to scan his eyes. At last, with a gust of air, a small safe opened up. Mello checked the door again before taking out the contents of the safe, the only thing inside being a wrinkled newspaper.

Placing it on his desk, he skimmed the front page. The date read "May 14, 2015." The title read "The New York Times." Of course, the date on this day was not May 14, but instead May 13. And the issue of the Times from today's date was already distributed to the public. But this issue was the only one of its kind, for now, and it was in Mello's possession.

Ignoring the current events of the day - or rather, of tomorrow - he immediately flipped to the Business Day page. The NASDAQ was down by 0.93%, the S&P 500 by 0.71%. _'Not good,'_ he thought, scanning the page for positive numbers. And there it was: Crude oil up 1%, and natural gas up 3%.

The Euro was trading much higher than yesterday - or rather, today - and the US dollar was up half a cent! This was enough. Mello's clients would be satisfied.

 **-Toronto, 1:28 pm-**

Matt fidgeted with his suit jacket, pulling the blazer's cuffs back as far as they could go. He had never worn a suit before, and this one was much too big for him. His hands were often not fully visible behind the sleeves.

The conference room slowly filled with executives, pantsuits and ties and golden cufflinks lined the rectangular table. Matt stood awkwardly at the front of the room, a projector illuminating a screen behind him. He watched as the older men and women shot him weird glances, practically hearing their thoughts.

 _'This is the new agent?' 'He's the one who got this case?' 'He's young enough to be my grandson, what's the meaning of this?' 'Management has lost its marbles.'_

Of course, no one actually said this, but Matt was prone to anxiety-inducing evaluations of situations. It was a bad habit; he was trying to get rid of it.

At exactly 1:30, Matt cleared his throat and a presentation started up behind him.

"H-hello everyone," he began, fiddling with the presentation clicker in his hands. "As you probably know, I'm the new recruit... assigned to the M-015 case. My name is Matt, and no, before you ask, I don't have a last name... sorry." The slides changed behind him. "Anyway, I've been asked to brief you on this case so if you have any questions, feel free to ask."

A hand shot up and a skinny woman in a dark blue blazer spoke up, "By which criteria were you assigned to this case? Where were you transferred from, anyway?" There were some nods in agreement around the table.

Matt blinked. "...Um, I'm actually not authorized to reveal that information. Sorry. May I continue?"

The woman made a face of disgust. Matt took that as a 'yes.'

"So," he continued, "here is what we know. The organization, a crime syndicate code-named Manhattan Mafia and hereby referred to as 'the mafia' or 'the group,' operates primarily in New York, although there are indications that their reach extends far beyond the United States. We are not yet aware of any members, but we estimate there to be at least ten operating in the New York base and a network of up to one hundred operating in other parts of the world. They have been on the radar for a couple of years, but this year saw a spike in illegal activity which is why the group is now a priority for CSIS, the CIA and the FBI. Interpol is keeping an eye on the situation as well."

A balding man from the back of the table raised his hand. "They've been known in the past for Blacknet drug trafficking - is this still the case?"

Matt's eye twitched, "Actually it's the DARKnet." He shook his head, "and no, although they are probably still engaged in narcotics trading, this time the case is insider trading."

Someone else in the room shouted out, "You mean like stock market stuff?"

"Exactly," Matt said, changing the slide again, "they possess insider information, which they sell to their clients. This information consists of certain stocks, exchange traded funds, commodities, or bonds, which are undervalued and will increase by a varying amount of basis points within 24 hours."

Matt looked out at the gaggle of blank faces in front of him.

"Um... To simplify: let's say Apple stock is trading at $120 today. Following?" Matt waited until everyone nodded. "This group receives inside information that tomorrow the stock will trade at $190. This is quite a spike, right? If you owned 1,000 shares of Apple stock, you'd make $70,000 overnight! That's what happens. The clients receive a collection of stock names, which they buy while the price is low, and then sell immediately after the spike. Make sense?"

There was a murmuring among the attendees. A man sitting at the front of the table scratched his head and said, "People get rich from stocks all the time, don't they..? Can't these just be flukes by lucky people?"

Matt shook his head, "Absolutely not. These are the same people, consistently, winning out against the market index. People have tried for years and years, ever since the stock market was born, to predict prices. It's impossible. Stocks are forecasted along what's called a 'random walk;' meaning 'impossible to predict with any accuracy.' Additionally, those that have been taken in under suspicion of insider trading all say the same thing: I got an anonymous phone call and someone told me to buy these stocks."

"But how can they be getting this information?" Asked a grey-haired woman with a bewildered look on her face.

"That," Matt said, "is what I am trying to figure out."

 **-A couple of months ago, New York City-**

It was a cold January afternoon when Mello found The Newspaper.

Although primarily a criminal by trade, Mello always had a knack for investigating. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he was brought up, but that is another story for another time. Those detective skills were quickly recognized by clients and allies alike, and it offered Mello no lack of interesting cases to solve.

On this day, he sat across a few people who were seated on a dark red leather sofa. This was in a previous location, before the Polar Parlor base was established, and instead of heavy metal, the walls were a comforting wood. The sofa was occupied by a thin African-American woman, her heavy and stout companion, a lanky young man with a redneck look on his face, and an old rugged man. Their names, respectively, were Rochelle, Coach, Ellis, and Bill. Four New York natives who had a problem and had heard that Mello might be able to solve it.

"This guy said the Red Sox would lose the game - and then they did!" Rochelle said, visibly angry. "I lost on the bets 'cause of course no one would bet against! It's bad for my business."

Bill chimed in, "The creep told me ma corn farm would burn to th'ground. I told 'im he was a whackjob but then ya wouldn't believe it," he shook his head, "on the next day, all ma corn was burnt to a crisp."

Mello listened attentively, occasionally nodding his head.

"I done seen him in the 7-11." Ellis recalled his story, "he looked at me with them kooky eyes and says 'I know which ticket is gonna win' and picked one out."

"Let me guess; he won?" Mello asked.

Ellis nodded in response. "He claims he can see the future. Crazy."

"We ain't the only ones pissed off by this," Coach added. "This guy needs to go."

A half hour later, Mello had the office to himself. He paced the floor, thinking about the details given to him. He knew who they were talking about - a short, old man, who lived on a hill in the suburbs of Albany, nicknamed Wacky Wally. Rumours were that he was insane, but these new revelations were intriguing. Having nothing better to do for the rest of the day, Mello grabbed his coat and set off to investigate.

The snow had finally stopped falling when Mello reached the small shack on the hill. The place unmistakably belonged to a crazy person. There were eight scarecrows on the front lawn as well as years' worth of leaves, weeds, and trash. Mello walked around the perimeter of the house, looking for a possible way inside. The front door was locked with a giant padlock - an indication that the crazy man wasn't home. The windows were all boarded up from the inside. The cellar door was shut tight.

Mello sighed. The only way in was the chimney.

Although fit, Mello still had a difficult time climbing up to the roof due to the old plywood ravaging him with splinters. Finally at the chimney, he peered down. It was maybe a 15 foot drop - if he was careful, he could slide down slowly without incident.

But he was not careful.

"Oof!" Mello hit the pile of wood in the fireplace with a loud thud. Getting up carefully, he looked around to make sure no one was in the house to hear him. Hearing only the silence of the empty house in response, Mello began to search. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he was certain that he found something valuable when his eyes landed on a newspaper laying on the coffee table. What caught his attention was the date: it was tomorrow's. He picked it up.

The headline read _'French satire magazine - Charlie Hebdo - under attack: artists killed by terrorists.'_ Further down on the page was an article on the strife in Ukraine, then something about Pope Francis. He turned the page. An analysis of the Ebola crisis in Africa, a sports column about football, a crossword. There was an article about a London orphanage that burnt down from a stray bolt of lightning. He turned to the third page.

 _"Fire on the hilltops of Albany: One man dead"_ was the title on the page. Underneath was a picture of the burnt wreckage of a house and Mello recognized the front yard immediately. It was this house.

Mello nearly jumped when he heard the padlock clicking open. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the newspaper, stuffed it in his coat, and hid in the closet. He watched through a small crack as the front door swung open and the man known as Wacky Wallace stepped inside. He was muttering to himself.

"Ain't no way I'm dyin' tonight." Wally walked into the living room and Mello could see that he was holding a box of matches. "I know I can't control fate, O Holy One," Wally said, raising his hands high into the air. "This house will burn down, it will, but I won't be the one dyin'..!" He laughed like a cartoon villain and began pacing the room. "Any minute now the FedEx man'll be here, and I'll make sure he never leaves."

Mello held his breath. This man was indeed crazy - plotting a murder because of a newspaper? Just then, his eyes widened in terror.

" _And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive._

 _Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive."_

His cell phone was ringing. Before he could even reach into his pocket to shut the thing off, the closet door was nearly ripped off by Wally.

His voice boomed with fury, "WHO. **ARE** **.** **YOU?!** "

Mello opened his mouth to speak but couldn't think of an appropriate answer.

Wally suddenly backed down. "Wait... This is perfect... Now I don't even have to wait for the FedEx guy!" With a mighty force, he pushed Mello back and slammed the closet door shut, pushing a chair up against it.

 _'Oh shit,'_ thought Mello, trying to push the door open. It wouldn't budge.

"Oh happy day!" Wally laughed again, and Mello could hear the striking of a match.

 _'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,'_ pushing against the door with all his might, Mello's mind was racing with thoughts. How could he escape? His thoughts were interrupted by an irritating tickle against his stomach. _'Of course - the paper!'_ He pulled the newspaper out of his coat hastily and knocked against the door loudly.

"Hey old man!" Mello shouted, as fire began to fill the house. "You might not wanna leave yet!"

Wally, who was already at the front door, turned around. "What? Shut up and accept your fate!"

Mello coughed from the smoke, but shouted loud enough for Wally to hear, "Oh yeah? You're gonna leave me burning in here with your fortune-telling newspaper?"

Wally stopped dead in his tracks. He ran to the coffee table, flipping it over. "My paper! You TOOK IT?!"

"Indeed I did, I have it right here." Mello crinkled the pages a bit for Wally to hear. The living room was already ablaze and the lack of open windows made it very hard to breathe.

 **"GIVE IT BACK!"** Wally bellowed, stomping to the closet and avoiding the flames.

"Well I can't unless you open the door, isn't that right?" As he said this, Mello was already preparing his next move. He quietly removed a coat hanger from the upper rack and untwisted it.

Wally was furious. The heat from the flames and his anger were impairing his judgment. He quickly moved aside the chair that was blocking the closet door and that split second was all that Mello needed. The blond kicked open the door and in a single move, the sharp bronze end of the coat hanger impaled Wally through the chest.

The fire spread to the wooden walls. Hearing the creaking of the foundation, Mello quickly pushed aside the astonished old man and ran for the door. Clutching the newspaper under his arm, he jumped out of the house. As soon as he was on the lawn, the building collapsed in a fiery heap.

Mello fell to the ground in a coughing fit. The flames enveloped the shack so fast that Wally didn't have time to scream. Looking at the newspaper, Mello got up slowly; inhaling the oxygen so deeply that he felt his lungs would burst. And, without another glance at the house, he made his way down the hill. It would be hours before the fire department was notified.

This was how The Newspaper made its way into Mello's hands. Over the next couple of weeks, he would carefully study the newspaper and then read the corresponding news. It was never wrong. Mello had no idea how it worked. At 8:00 in the morning, Eastern Time, if you were watching the pages, the typewritten words would disintegrate and re-appear. The date rearranged itself into that of the following day.

Now, a person could do great things with the future in their hands. One could become famous as a fortune teller, or a prophet. One could try to prevent terrible things by warning the world of events to come. One could simply sit back and watch.

Mello? Well, he chose to make money.

The business column, the stock market, the index. It would also change day-by-day. Every businessman's dream come true: knowing tomorrow's stock prices.

 **-Present day, Toronto, 3:31 pm-**

Matt was tired. He spent an hour answering questions in the conference room, and then another hour answering questions in his office. As soon as he was alone, the phone rang and he had to answer _more_ questions. By the end of it all, he was so drained that he had even forgotten to eat lunch.

Getting up from his desk, Matt grabbed his wallet and exited the building. In the nearest trash can, he dumped the suit jacket and then headed towards the Tim Horton's down the street.

Waiting in the lineup, Matt started hatching his plan. He had to find a way to get into contact with someone from the elusive mafia group and figure out how in the world they were getting their information. Although not great, Matt had an idea. A businessman, CEO of Johnson & Johnson, had recently made incredible capital gain on his portfolio. Matt suspected it was because of an underground informant.

"Four cheese bagel with butter please, toasted." Matt said to the cashier, "and a small Iced Cap." Paying the Indian woman at the cash register, he went over to the side to wait for his food.

If he could tap into the phone lines of the CEO, there was a chance he could overhear the guy bragging about the stock information he got. Hopefully, it would be enough to point Matt in the right direction. He knew the chances were slim. He'd have to wait hours, maybe days, for the guy to say something of interest.

Taking the bagel and coffee, Matt made his way to a window-side table and sat down. He wondered how many more people would exploit this trading system in the time it took him to track down information. It was frustrating.

Then suddenly; "Catherine, I'm telling you, invest in Alibaba. I promise you won't regret it."

Matt turned his head ever so slightly toward a couple sitting on his left – a tall man in a collared shirt and tie was sitting across from an older woman with a purple shawl. The man's voice was hushed, and Matt had to strain to hear him.

The woman presumably named Catherine sipped her coffee, "Again with the Chinese Google site, John? I told you, I'm not interested in gambling with those foreign stocks. Who knows what those Asians are doing."

The man presumably named John had a desperate look on his face. "No I'm telling you, it _isn't_ a gamble!" His voice quieted down even more, "Can't you just trust me? The stock will spike, I'm certain of it this time."

Catherine adjusted her glasses and sighed. "Fine, I'll read some analyst reports after lunch, maybe I'll look into it with my broker tomorrow."

"No, _not_ tomorrow!" John had to forcefully keep his voice down, looking around suspiciously. Matt quickly lowered his gaze to his drink, pretending to be on his phone. John dropped to a near whisper, "Catherine, please. You have to buy the stock today."

The woman looked agitated as she put her coffee down forcefully. "What's really going on, John? You're beginning to sound like a crazy person."

There was a pause. "…Catherine. You must've heard along the grapevine about all those people getting rich from short-selling stocks after receiving an anonymous phone call, right?"

Catherine nodded slowly. Matt was nearly on the edge of his seat.

"Well," John continued hesitantly, "… _I_ got a phone call."

The woman gasped quietly, covering her mouth. "No… You're telling me you—"

"Yes, for the past two weeks I've been in contact with colleagues who knew people that got rich from on the TSX. They put me through to some site in the deep web and I had to pre-pay a lot of money. I was so afraid of a scam, but then this morning, I got the call!"

Matt couldn't believe his luck. All he needed was one more clue.

Catherine chose her next words very carefully; "John… Does anyone else know about this?"

The man shook his head quickly. "Just you! I was very careful. I used the Onion Router and everything. All I had to do was search for something on the black market, and the forum section led me to the right page! No tracks left behind: I paid everything in coin!"

At this point, Matt tuned them out. _'Jackpot,'_ was the only thought in his mind as he quickly finished the bagel and hurried out of the café. With a surge of new energy, he was back at his computer in less than ten minutes.

Setting up TOR, otherwise known as the Onion Router, was a relatively easy task for Matt. The virtual browser acted as an invisibility cloak for internet users – you were essentially untraceable on the net because your computer's address bounced off international browsers so many times that it was nearly impossible to track.

 _Nearly_ impossible.

Matt had at his disposable a full arsenal of security software and hardware, provided to him by his employers. And although internet activity was impossible to trace through TOR, there was one piece of the puzzle that no one can cover up completely: payment.

The virtual currency, coin, is protected by layers and layers of encryption, keeping the buyers and sellers of illegal merchandise safe from prying eyes. However, since at some point the virtual currency must be linked to _real_ currency (after all, no one would accept imaginary money, right?), a momentary crack in the protection opens up.

Using site crawling software, Matt searched the forums of the deep web's black market for relevant keywords. Upon locating a trace of a couple of payees, he was able to follow the path of the money through the net. Within three and a half hours, he had the coordinates to a location.

 **-The next day, New York City, 8:31 am-**

In the dim light of the morning shining through the blinds, Mello sat in his office, counting his money. Yes, this was a cliché of course, but he was a stickler for details and thus kept rigorous records of every transaction. His personal motto was 'trust no one but yourself.'

The system he had developed was brilliant to say the least. Upon taking the Newspaper into his possession, it took Mello less than a day to come up with the idea of using the future stock prices as a way to make money. Certainly, he spent a few days testing its accuracy. Like clockwork, the words on the grey pages foretold the coming events of the day to a T. The news were accurate as of 8:00 in the morning of the date under the heading.

With the curiosity of a scientist, Mello had tested the limits of the Newspaper.

He kept the folded sheet of tests in the safe along with the Newspaper itself.

After having figured out the time constraint, Mello began to map out how to properly exploit the future's information. He would enlist others to buy the stocks from the paper on the day before the paper's date. Overnight the prices would change, and by 8:00 am they will have always hit the target price documented on the page.

The next step was figuring out how to profit from this. Surely, he could have simply bought and sold the stocks himself, profiting from the capital gains. But this was too easy. Instead, every other day, he would sell the information. Bit by bit. For enormous prices.

Why every _other_ day? Because the following day, he would reinvest the money from his clients into the largest spiking stocks himself. By reinvesting credited money, he was essentially making a profit from nothing. And the profit was huge.

Within a month of starting this plan, Mello had bought him and his team a brand new base, in the heart of New York. This building, although aptly hidden from plain sight, was huge. It descended 15 floors beneath the surface, and was decked out with the newest technological advancements. Not to mention, the money also funded the ice cream shop, which served as a perfect disguise.

On top of the new location, Mello had also given generous gifts to the members of his team. His immediate colleagues were not many, and had become sort of a makeshift family. There was Elli, the girl who took care of protection measures and finances. As such, she was in charge of upholding the group's disguise and most of their accounting. Since her early teenage years, she wished to run an ice cream parlor – and Mello granted this wish.

For Mike, Mello's right-hand man, public transport was his means of getting around. Often this created problems due to delays and crowding. As a solution, Mello got him a car.

Similar gifts were granted for the others, such as Nick, who received a week-long prepaid vacation to Mexico, and Lucy, whom he bought a pet-friendly apartment and a puppy. Mello never accepted any gifts in return.

Now, as he sat in his office, counting his money, there was a knock on the door.

"Hey," Elli's voice sounded through the metal, "can I come in?"

Mello put the money aside, unlocking the door with a button under his desk. "What's up?"

Elli looked excited but confused. "Um, well… There's a kid out there, in the Parlor. He said he wants a job. He's very cute; I think he'd make a good addition. Plus I could use some help! Mike has fucking butterfingers and I can't trust Luce around kids. You know."

Mello raised an eyebrow. "…What did you tell him?"

"I said to wait there and that I'd go get the hiring manager from the back," she smiled.

"We have a hiring manager?" Mello inquired, to which Elli laughed.

"Yes, it's _you._ Can you go talk to him? Please please please please?" She put her palms together, "With a very beary cherry on top?"

Mello sighed, but he couldn't say no to that. "Fine, I'll go. But for the future, don't include me in your ice cream matters."

 **-Earlier that day, New York City, 7:56 am-**

Matt had taken the plane from Toronto Pearson to the JFK New York airport the very same night he found the address. Catching the 3:00 am flight, he hadn't slept all night, running off the adrenaline of his first job as a CSIS agent.

Having no suitcase, Matt left the airport in a hurry, carrying only a backpack with a computer and some clothes. He hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address he had scribbled on a post-it note. When the cab stopped in front of the Polar Parlor, Matt asked why.

"This is address ya gave me, kid. That'll be $60." The cabbie held out his hand, waiting for the cash.

Matt blinked, looking out the window to the pinkish purple ice cream parlor with a couple of white patio chairs and tables, adorned with pink-embroidered snowflake tablecloths.

"This… can't be the right place…"

The cabbie rolled his eyes, "The longer you make me idle here, the more I'll charge ya."

"O-oh, sorry," Matt took out three twenties and a five, handing it to the driver and stepping out of the car, which immediately drove away.

He stood in front of the parlor for a few minutes, trying to figure out his mistake. _'Did I spell something wrong? Did I get a false address? Were the coordinates messed up?'_

His thoughts were interrupted by the jingling of the bells above the door as it opened. Elli stepped outside, flipping over the sign that said, 'I know it's unBEARable, but we're closed!' to the other side, which said, 'Don't be biPOLAR – come on in!'

"Hey kiddo," she smiled at Matt, "do you want ice cream so bad that you were waiting for me to open?"

Matt fumbled with the straps of his bag, "U-um, no, I…" He tried to gather his thoughts, noticing the emptiness of the parlor behind Elli. "I'm… actually looking for a job..! Are you hiring?" He figured he might as well investigate the area, in case the address was indeed correct. Maybe the base was nearby? Maybe underground?

"A job, huh?" Elli pondered this, putting a hand to her chin. "Well, I suppose I could use the help. Do you have any experience in the service industry, hon?"

Matt grinned, "I'm a quick learner."

Elli laughed, holding the door open. "Okay, come inside and I'll see what I can do." She went over to the counter, leaning against it. "My name is Elise, by the way. But you can call me Elli. What's your name?"

"I'm Matt," he said, admiring the interior décor. "Do you own this place?"

"Yep, the Polar Parlor is my pride and joy." She pushed a few stray locks of hair behind her ear in a proud gesture. "You like it?"

Matt nodded. He looked around the shop – the walls were decorated with paintings of an arctic landscape and silver snowflakes hung from the ceiling by invisible strings. The counter featured the Parlor's mascot, an anthropomorphized polar bear named Pecan. This bear was also on the front of Elli's pink apron, which she wore over a light purple dress whose buttons barely held together over her giant boo—

"So what makes you want to work at an ice cream shop, Matt?" She tilted her head slightly.

"Well I've always liked ice cream…" he said, "There was this one place near my old orphanage where I would go whenever I was lonely, and the owners would always give me a free cone of their freshest flavor!"

Elli's heart spilled over with emotion as she put a hand to her chest, "Oh… That's so sweet. I'll let you in on a little secret: I like to give out some free ice cream sometimes… You never know when people really need that."

Matt smiled, "I'm sure you made many customers very happy!" The story about the ice cream shop was a blatant lie. Matt wasn't even sure if there were any stand-alone parlors in London, but a sad anecdote never hurt anyone.

Elli suddenly clapped her hands together. "Alright! You wait here Matt, I'll go check with… the… hiring manager! Be back in a jiffy~!" With that, Elli disappeared behind the 'Staff Only' door.

Alone in the room, Matt looked around. He wandered to the tables, then went behind the counter, looking over the ice cream flavors, each named with a polar bear related pun. Just then, the bells of the front door chimed.

A little girl holding the hand of what Matt presumed was her father ran into the parlor. She pressed her hands against the glass of the display, inspecting the ice cream.

She looked up at Matt and furrowed her brows. "Who are you? Where's Elli?"

"She's in the back," he replied, "Can I get you something? I'm… possibly the new employee."

"Oh… Okay!" The girl pulled her dad to the counter. "I want the Polar Bear Tracks, daddy."

The man nodded at Matt, "Just one of those in a cone, please."

"No problem," Matt took the opportunity to ask some questions while he scooped the ice cream. "So are you Elli's frequent customers?"

"We are," the man said. "She's such a nice girl. Sometimes I worry though, I notice she gives a lot of her products away for free, and there are often charity events that she hosts, with free ice cream. Not to mention the long winters lately…"

Matt plopped the ice cream into a cone, wrapping it with a napkin. "You're saying this place may be going bankrupt…?"

The man chuckled, "I always thought we might come by one day to see a 'foreclosed' sign on the door. But it never happens. I guess she's really good at budgeting."

' _Interesting. So the Polar Parlor possibly has a second stream of income…'_ Matt thought, as he handed the ice cream cone to the girl.

"Say 'thank you,' Lizzy," the man put some change on the counter.

"Thank you!" The girl took the cone and skipped out of the store.

"Take care," the man tipped his hat, "say 'hi' to Elli for me."

Matt nodded, "will do!" and watched as the two of them left the parlor. He looked at the money on the counter, then at the cash register. Unsure of how to use it, he just pushed the coins aside. He walked over to the other side of the room, to a large corkboard hanging from the opposite wall.

In cut-out block letters, the words 'Community Corner' were taped to the top of the board. Many papers were pinned onto the corkboard with tacs, ranging from an adoption drive at a local animal shelter to a food bank fundraiser to a cancer drive marathon. There were also various drawings, brought in by young customers, of the polar bear mascot, as well as a few of, presumably, Elli.

Matt smiled a bit to himself – there was no way this place was involved in illegal activity. Elli was obviously a kindred spirit. Perhaps she was getting the money to run the shop through other means: maybe she got a large inheritance or won the lottery. Either way, the place he was looking for was not here.

He would have to investigate around the area but in the meantime, he might as well make some extra money. He didn't bring too much with him to New York, thinking he wouldn't need to stay long. He hadn't considered a mistake in his research.

As Matt continued to read the community flyers, Elli came out from behind the staff door.

"Hey, I'm back!" She made her way towards Matt. Behind her was a young man, around her age but a bit older, with blond hair that fell to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. "I brought the hiring manager!" She smiled, patting the other on the back.

Matt looked up. He was much shorter than this 'hiring manager,' and a bit intimidated by the fierce look in his eyes. "Um… Hello, I'm Matt."

"…Hello, Matt," the man said holding a hand out, "I'm Mello."

 _To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**-Part 2-**

 _Author's Note: This chapter gives the backstory on Mello's team. You can skip it if you'd like, but events from their pasts will become relevant in the story as it progresses._

When Mello had first acquired the Newspaper, he knew immediately that business plans were going to change. Up to that point, the "Manhattan Mafia," as it was so crudely nicknamed by the media, was involved in a whole range of activities. Frankly, the group didn't even have an official name. They had ties to narcotics trafficking, black market weaponry, underground organ donations, money laundering, et cetera.

The third day after finding the Newspaper, Mello had planned on gathering his faithful team to tell them the new course of action. Mainly, the switch from all that miscellaneous stuff to insider trading. He had decided early on that he would keep the Newspaper to himself – mostly because he was afraid they'd think him crazy for believing a fortune-telling newspaper. All he planned on telling them was that he'd acquired new, and very useful, information on the stock market.

It wasn't that Mello didn't trust them. Similarly, the four members of his team trusted him as well. He just didn't want to complicate things further.

The team consisted of Elli, Mike, Lucy, and Nick. Elli, of course, was the blonde fun-loving girl in charge of the Polar Parlor. Mike, a lighthearted and somewhat goofy man, was Mello's trusted sidekick. Lucy was a force to be reckoned with – a quiet and ruthless killer, her bright pink hair was no reflection of her personality. Lastly, there was Nick, a trusted ex-gang member who worked with Elli on the finances and was also in charge of supplying inventory.

The four of them waited to hear the reason behind this sudden meeting.

"So," Mello said, breaking the silence, "we are about to set course in a new direction. One that will make us a _lot_ of money."

He looked first to Elli, who seemed the most intrigued.

"Oh? That's great!" She put her hands together, "Always good news to hear."

Mello smiled to himself. Elli was the second addition to his team in the early days, joining shortly after Mike. Elise René was her real name, but these days she just went as 'Elli.' Although you'd never be able to tell just by looking at her, she had a long history of crime behind her. She'd never killed anybody, oh no, but otherwise she's tried everything under moon.

He still remembers looking over her government case file, the two of them laughing over the (un)flattering photograph of her with a stolen baseball bat, and then subsequently destroying all evidence of her records. Good times…

 **-Elise "Elli" René-**

Mello had met Elli, of all places, in a monastery.

She did not fit in very well among the other nuns with her bright hair, cheerful melodic voice, and, well, her figure. However, she operated out of the monastery for several months, successfully running an underground gambling ring.

Not many people know this, but the Catholic Church has a _long_ history of illicit gambling practices, dating back to the very first Popes. Although illegal since the 1800s, the gambling continued throughout the years. For whatever reason, a spike in popularity brought more people than ever to the underground poker tables, and Elli quickly jumped at the opportunity.

She hadn't always been a criminal, however. Once, over a shared mug of bubble tea, Elli told Mello her story.

She was eighteen years old when she met _him_. Although she never told Mello his name, she occasionally slipped up during her recollection and used the name 'Miles.' Anyway, she told Mello how she began a law internship at a prosecutor's office in Washington during her years in university. She was young and eager to learn, with a dream of someday becoming a pro-bono server of justice, protecting the innocent from crime.

Ironic, isn't it?

She had hoped to intern at a defense attorney's office, but she wasn't one to turn down a job at her age. So when a spot opened up with the Crown, she happily agreed. She worked directly under one the of the country's most successful prosecutors as an assistant, and followed him everywhere for the duration of her internship.

Elli quickly fell head over heels for this man.

"I'm not talking, like, chick-flick love," she had said to Mello that day, "I would seriously do anything for him. I'd give my life for him." She paused, "…He was everything to me."

And everything, he was. This prosecutor was well known among his peers and rivals, and Elli had heard her fair share or rumours about him prior to starting her internship. Rumours like falsified evidence to maintain a perfect guilty record. Rumours like manipulating judges and twisting the words of witnesses to make his case. Rumours like that.

Of course, Elli didn't believe a single one. Love does that to you – it forcefully changes your sight to be tinted with rose-coloured illusions of perfection. He took her breath away.

Everything from murder trials to crime scene investigations to late night closing arguments, Elli stayed by his side. Because of the job, Elli had made a few enemies and lost many friends, but none of it mattered to her.

The end to this story came on a hot August day. The streets of Washington were enveloped in riots due to a foreign ambassador that was not allowed to attend a G-Summit meeting with the president. For almost an entire day, stores were looted, cars were stolen, homes were broken into – it was chaos. An electronic superstore was robbed of its most valuable devices. A jewelry store, housing some of the world's rarest quartz diamonds and pearls, was also demolished and robbed.

In an unpredictable turn of events, Elli was framed.

She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and her name and address fell into the hands of an envious rival. Taken into custody the following morning, Elli waited confidently for her mentor to arrive and bail her out. Surely he would believe her. Surely they would have a hearty laugh about this, after he bailed her out and defended her name in court. Then they could walk off into the sunset together.

But he did not defend her. He did not believe her story.

Elli's heart shattered into a million pieces that day. She stood at the defendant's podium, repeating her name; _Elise René_ ,

Repeating her claim;

 _not guilty,_

 _not guilty,_ _your honor_ _,_

 _I was_ _ **framed**_ _,_

 _Elise René,_

 _not_ _guilty_

 _not_ _guilty_

 _ **not**_ _ **guilty**_

 _ **not guilty**_

 _ **not guilty!**_

Her heart ached. To make the situation even more unbearable, the prosecutor assigned to the case was none other than her mentor. The man she had fallen in love with now stood under the spotlight of the court, accusing her of injustice. With every remark, he shot a bullet through her heart.

' _Where were you that day?'_

' _I was at home, watching the news!'_

' _Why was your student ID found at the scene?'_

' _I told you, I was_ _ **framed**_ _!'_

' _Who would have motive to frame you?'_

' _I-I don't know!'_

' _Your honor, I would like to enter a new piece of evidence.'_

' _What is that?!'_

' _Security footage of you at the scene, miss René.'_

' _But…_ _I was never there…_ _'_

Elli's breaking moment was when she realized that he was using falsified evidence against her. _The rumours were true_. He didn't give a damn about her. He would do everything in his power to ensure that she was given a guilty verdict, because he believed her to be guilty of this crime.

That was all that she could take. In the middle of the night, with the help of some other inmates, Elli escaped. And she ran, never looking back. Her life as she knew it was over, thanks to this man. Everything she had worked for up until this moment was crushed in a single day.

Mello had asked, with a clenched fist, "Why don't you just tell me his name, Elli?! I can avenge you, you know that!"

Elli had looked down, tears threatening to gloss over her eyes. "That's what I'm afraid of," she said. "…I still love him."

Upon destroying most records of her existence, Elli fled the state. After some time, she clandestinely got in touch with her family, and sent them away under witness protection to New Zealand. Apparently, she still contacts them once in a while, sending them money and updates on her life.

After becoming fugitive, Elli couldn't very well pursue academics or work. So, ironically, she turned to a life of crime. With her knowledge of the legal system, Elli successfully exploited many loopholes over the years. She was a part of many smuggling rings, from opium to jewelry, and eventually found her place among poker chips and playing cards. From counting cards and proceeds, Elli discovered her talent for finances, turning deficit into surplus with the snap of her fingers.

The cards and green fuzzy tables and the dinging of slot machines were Elli's muses. Her bubbly personality drew many newcomers to her casinos, and she soon found her way to the biggest underground rings of the Catholic Church. Donning nun's robes, Elli accustomed herself with the disguise, bringing in money from the richest clergy in the country. It got dull after a while, but it was comfortable.

To gain access to the casino, you would have to find a nun at the St. Ambrose monastery, and say the key words:

 _Did you bow to the Lord and repent today?_

To which Elli would answer:

 _I won't bruise my knees getting down to pray – won't repent 'til my judgment day._

Mello had heard rumours of a pretty blonde nun who could provide access to the best gambling scenes in the world. He had to see this for himself, wanting to get in on the action. This is how he met Elli. She was just shy of twenty at that time, and Mello quickly recognized that she was not at her full potential.

He offered her a job. She accepted.

Mello looked next to Nick, who was seated near Elli. He had a toothpick in his mouth, although he was not using it, and he wore the same white suit he always does, with a blue button-up shirt underneath.

Nick nodded in approval at Elli's statement, "What's the upgrade gonna be this time, chief?" He leaned back in his seat, "I hope it ain't contract killing. That shit's harder than it looks. Plus I hate getting blood on my clothes."

Mello chuckled. Nick was the second-latest recruit, succeeded only by Lucy. He remembered vividly the day Nick joined his team…

 **-Nicholas "Nick" Harrington-**

For as long as he could remember, Nick had lived his life as an outlaw. His father and his father's father integrated Nick seamlessly into the gang life. San Francisco was the crime capital of California. Gangs ruled the streets, and reputation was everything.

Nick was in a gang known as the Arcana. Infamous for weaponry trading and contract killing, the group was unique in its hierarchal structure. There were only 78 members at any given time – and each was codenamed after a Tarot card. Upon completing a hit job, a single Tarot card would be left at the scene as a signature.

Nick's grandfather was the Hierophant. He was in charge the maintenance and propagation of tradition and conventional beliefs, and anyone who went against these beliefs was shunned. Balance and conformity were the goals of the Hierophant, and neither positive nor negative is emphasized – only tradition matters.

His father was the Emperor – the archetypal Father, wise in the ways of the world and knowledgeable of how to live as part of a structure along with everyone else. He had a strong and powerful heart, as every father should, but he showed this side of himself through the imposition of strict guidelines and rules, as most fathers do.

With such predecessors, Nick had big shoes to fill. His role was the Magician, a powerful role responsible for theory and practice, logic and emotion, thought and action. He was a master of con artistry and illusion.

At his side was his lovely wife, the High Priestess, arguably the most difficult of the Arcana to qualify with words alone, because so much of her power and ability was veiled in mystery that it was difficult for anyone to fathom it all. She was a sight to behold; a dark-haired beauty with a slight Italian accent and the precision of a cobra – with all of the poison.

The two of them made a wonderful team. The Magician and the Priestess: illusion and grace. Nick's wife was named Amelia – Nick called her 'Amy' and 'my love,' showering her with gifts and a lavish lifestyle. In return, Amelia hung off his arm, showering him with kisses and caresses. They were inseparable partners in crime, and their relationship was the envy of many.

Most envious of all was Nick's younger brother – code-named the Devil.

Devoured from the inside by jealousy, his brother grew to despise Nick because of his happiness. He envied his brother's wealth, his comfort, his status.

It was five years ago, on June the 6th, that Nick came home to find his wife in bed with his brother.

It was on June the 7th that Nick beat his brother to death with a crowbar.

Murder of a fellow member was unforgivable by the Arcana. Despite the circumstances, and despite pleading to stay, Nick was banished from the only family he had ever known. He would have been killed if it weren't for the high position of power held by his father.

And so, without a home, Nick left to wander the deserts of San Francisco. Pursued by the police, he soon went into hiding and made a living through hit jobs for shady clients.

He hated it.

Walking along a back-alley road one day, Nick accidentally bumped into Mello, who had flown to California for a trade. Nick mumbled an apology and kept walking.

"Hey, did you drop this?" Mello had asked, holding up a Tarot card depicting the Magician.

Nick looked at the card, "…You can keep it."

Mello squinted his eyes, trying to make out the art on the card in the darkness of the alley. "This is from Arcana, isn't it? Are you a member?"

"Used to be."

"Are you any good?"

"…Used to be."

"…Wanna work for me?"

This was how Nick joined Mello's team.

At the far end of the couch sat Lucy, the second girl on his team and his latest recruit. She never said much and she wasn't going to break her routine today. Mello and the others knew better than to push her for words.

Lucy was Mello's killing machine. Although he himself was capable of handling a weapon, as was Nick, Mello left most of the dirty work to Lucy. To her, it was a second nature. She could rip a man's head off with one hand. She could suffocate someone without batting an eyelash. She could gut a body without getting a speck of blood on her clothes.

Now as she sat on the couch in his office, she barely looked up when Mello made his announcement. Money didn't matter to her and it never did.

What mattered to Lucy was tranquility, and the feeling of being at ease. She was vicious, cold, cruel, and unbelievably strong – and yet she feared and hated people. She feared men.

Mello was not afraid of her, nor was he a threat to her. She held him in such a respect that her loyalty would never waiver. And although fond of Elli and cautious of Nick, the only other person by whom Lucy felt most accepted was Mike.

This was how they met.

 **\- Lucy -**

Lucy was, to put it in Layman's terms, the result of an experiment.

The Global Coalition, together with the US and German army, established a secret project known as the NL-9000 in 2006. 'NL' stood for Nano- Laqueum, meaning 'microscopic trap'. Using nanotechnology, military science was ready to experiment with a new weapon.

Nanobots have always been promising in the field of combat due to their ability to effectively act as an extra set of programmable white cells. Such research, of course, was very controversial and expensive. Luckily, the military had both secrecy and wealth.

The NL-9000 project gave birth to H.O.R.N. – Hyper-Operational Restorative Neurons. Nicknamed 'horns,' this device was a matching set of white, nano-powered antenna, which were in the shape of small pyramidal horns. To function, the horns needed to be surgically fused to the skull of a human being, after which the Nanobots would gain access to the host's brain and electrical neuron energy.

With full power, the horns grant their host an unfathomably strong immune system and metabolism. Microscopic bots can rush to the site of a wound in milliseconds, and are able to close it, on average, 230% faster than the average human leukocyte. Additionally, muscle development is rapidly increased, allowed to host to achieve unbelievable strength.

Lucy was NL-9009: the ninth subject to be fused with horns. She was also the last.

For this project to begin its testing, the scientists needed humans. Lucy was a refugee from North-East Asia, her memories and past were taken from her. Wiped clean by amnestics, like a new doll straight out of the box, she was given the name 'Lucy' by the scientists who awoke her from a coma. All of the NL-9000 subjects had been given names with 'L.'

With no memory of who she was or how she got there, Lucy found herself upon an operating table. The horns had been fused to her skull, on either side of the top of her head, almost resembling cat ears. Before she had a chance to ask where she was, she was taken to training.

Four of the nine NL-9000 subjects expired during or shortly after the fusing procedure. One had accidentally killed himself due to a malfunction of the horns. Lucy and three others were deemed a success. The scientists had to test the limits of the subjects' new bodies.

In trained combat, Lucy endured a series of life threatening injuries. The Nanobots from the horns on her head were able to keep her alive through bullet holes, bayonet wounds, immolation, amputation, and stepping on landmines. Despite suffering incredible pain, the continual injuries made her regenerative strength more and more powerful, and her physical strength was increasing as well.

She was deemed ready for the battlefield.

Lucy got transferred to a Mobile Task Force (MTF-24) on the west coast, which was constantly at war with various groups of interest. Preceded by the news of her successful training with the new technology, she was quickly put on the front lines. At that time, the researchers behind the NL-9000 project were not yet aware of side effects or potential dangers to the host.

In a freak accident of friendly fire, a stray bullet hit Lucy's right horn, cracking off about half a centimeter from its tip. She fell unconscious immediately. For a few days after that, Lucy had to be monitored. The wounds she had gotten the day of the crack took longer to heal. For about 48 hours she couldn't even walk.

The first night in the intensive care unit on the military base, Lucy was raped.

Unable to fully register the sounds outside her tent, Lucy had woken up that night in a cold sweat. One by one, a group of male soldiers from the task force snuck their way inside. Lucy could count at least ten of them. One held his hand over her mouth while two others held her down.

That was the night Lucy lost her humanity. Any shreds of compassion or empathy that may have developed in her heart were instantly frozen over under a dark blanket of stone.

She was still unable to walk on the second day. On the third day, it seems, the unbroken horn had doubled its capacity and Lucy's abilities were fully restored.

The head scientist behind the NL-9000 project received an unplanned phone call from the captain of the MTF from the west coast that afternoon. The captain told him with a shaky voice that the project has to be shut down.

He explained frantically that NL-9009, in a disillusioned state of rage, had dismembered at least ten members of his task force. Without any weapons, words, or warnings.

When the scientist, taken aback by this news, asked the captain to repeat himself, the line was already dead. As was the captain.

The NL-9000 project was disbanded immediately. The other three subjects were terminated and all of the information regarding the H.O.R.N. technology was destroyed. Lucy was the only NL-9000 subject remaining in the world.

She escaped the military facility and walked for miles and miles until she reached human civilization. Noting that the horns on her head attract unwanted attention, she kept them hidden with hats. She had no idea how to live a normal life. She had no one. She had manifested a fear of, and hatred for, humans.

She was alone. And loneliness is the ultimate poverty.

 **-Michael "Mike" Truman-**

Mike grew up in a happy family. It wasn't a large family by any means – just him, his sister Marcia, who was five years his senior, and their father, Charley. Mike had never known his mother, who had apparently left shortly after his birth, taking off with someone else. Marcia remembered her only vaguely, but the two of them were more than happy being raised by their father.

Charley cared for his kids more than anything else in the world and ensured that they had a good childhood. The three of them did everything together – they went to parks for picnics, to zoos, to the lake – something new almost every weekend. Charley worked as a teacher at a college, and tried his best to manage his work hours and home hours.

Marcia and Mike went to school and camp together, and they were inseparable. Marcia, the brave older sister, pulled Mike around by the hand, defending him from the dangers of the world. Mike, a reliable brother and friend, was always there for his sister when she needed to talk. They had no secrets.

When Mike was 12 and his sister was 17, their father got sick.

ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, otherwise known as Lou Gehrig's disease, is a rare and terrible affliction. Invariably fatal and rapidly progressive, ALS attacks the neurons that control voluntary muscle movement, inevitably leaving its victim trapped in the motionless shell of a useless body. Unable to function, the muscles gradually weaken and waste away.

Charley was diagnosed after he went to the doctor complaining of weakness and difficulty swallowing. He was given a prognosis of less than three years.

Mike will never forget the moment he heard those words. He was sitting on the couch with his sister, across from his dad and a man in a doctor's lab coat.

" _Your father is sick."_

 _"There is no cure for ALS."_

 _"Less than three years."_

As the weeks progressed, Mike and Marcia started to become aware of their father's rapidly degenerating health. It began with a cane, then a walker, then a wheelchair. He could no longer button his shirts. He could no longer teach. He could no longer eat solid foods.

With each passing month, more and more unwanted additions were made to the household. An IV drip. A caretaker. A breathing machine. A heart monitor.

In two years, their father was no longer able to speak. At 14 years old, Mike knew the inevitable fate that was approaching his only parent. Following the muscles of the abdomen, the disease would attack the muscle of the lungs. Ultimately, ALS always leads to death by suffocation.

Throughout the whole ordeal, the family had gotten even closer. It's amazing the love humans are capable of when precious time ticks away from them.

When Charley finally passed, it was a painless death in his sleep. Mike and Marcia were by his side, but they did not cry. Having already said their goodbyes and cried out their hearts, they were ready for the moment when it came.

Marcia, who was now 19, took on the responsibility of caring for herself and for Mike. She put college on hold until Mike finished high school and worked at a coffee shop in the mean time to pay the rent and cover the sky-high medical bills. She never complained and never accepted any help. The death of their father hit her brother much harder – she had to be his rock.

In a couple of years, Mike graduated and went to college. Marcia had decided to stay at the coffee shop, where she soon became the manager. Mike was on his way to achieving a journalist degree when Marcia met Joseph.

Joseph was a doctor at the local hospital. He frequented the coffee shop and became quite infatuated with Marcia – the two of them hit it off right away. He was a kind man, and treated Marcia like a princess. Mike was put off by the fact that someone else was taking his sister's attention, but upon realizing that Joseph was worthy of her, they became close.

In a couple more years, Mike watched with tears in his eyes as his beloved sister got married. They lived in a nice, large house now, a luxury that the siblings had never known. At 19, Mike was saving up money to move out but Joseph insisted he stay with him and Marcia.

Then Layla was born. She had Marcia's button nose and Joseph's curly hair, and she had the whole world reflecting from her big chocolate-coloured eyes. Mike, of course, became the designated babysitter.

He loved Layla to death. When her first words, instead of 'ma-ma,' were 'mi-mi,' Mike was ecstatic. He would take her everywhere, with her parents' permission, and he would shower her with toys and attention. He was in a happy family once more.

But of course, all good things must come to an end.

This is how, on Christmas Eve, Mike wound up on a roof, ready to jump.

Mike had been on a business trip – covering a story in Maryland on some Christmas charity fundraiser. Since it was Christmas Eve, he had wanted to take the day off, but his boss wouldn't allow it. Instead, he tried to finish up his work as quickly as possible and get home to have dinner with his family.

He picked up a large stuffed rabbit for Layla. He wrapped it haphazardly in purple paper, fit with a bow. He had bought a bracelet for Marcia. A watch for Joseph.

As he wondered what they may have gotten him, he put his key into the lock on the door. When the door swung open, unlocked, Mike stepped in slowly.

 _Why is the door unlocked?_

The smell of iron hit him like a gust of wind that picks up when a train speeds by on a platform. What smell was this?

 _Blood? Is this_ _ **blood?**_

His heart began to race as he dropped his bags on the floor. His eyes darted around the living room.

 _Joseph?_

 _Marcia?_

His gaze moved downwards to the wooden parquet floor. Bloodied footprints led out of the room and up the stairs.

 _Layla?_

 _Marcia?_

 _Where are you?_

In a daze, he made his way past the decorated tree and to the stairs. The beating of his heart echoed through his ears, pulsing with an unspeakable fear.

The footprints led him to the bedroom.

 _Marcia, please answer me!_

The bedroom door swung open.

 _Oh God…_

 _No…_

Their deaths were immediately ruled as a homicide. When Mike had found them, his sister and her baby were still breathing. In a few minutes, they were no longer. They had been stabbed multiple times – there was no hope.

From that point on, Mike wandered aimlessly in a haze. He developed severe depression. Not a moment went by when he wasn't thinking about things he could have done that day that could have prevented the deaths of his family.

 _I should have stayed home. I should have come back earlier. I should have – I should have – I should have – I should have – I should have – I….._

He hadn't noticed the flights of stairs beneath his feet. Suddenly, he was on a roof.

Now, luckily or unluckily, people were around that day. His suicide was prevented and, against his wishes, he started therapy. It didn't last too long though, as the money he had quickly ran out after the burial plots and the funerals were paid for. Having lost all sense of caring for his own life, Mike ended up on the street.

It was a cold February morning in Boston. The snow was relentless, blanketing the streets with a ghastly white. Mike sat on a bench, shivering in the cold.

"Hey. You hungry?"

Mike thought he heard a voice. Was someone talking? Surely not to him.

" **Hey** , I said! You deaf, too?"

Mike looked up at last, figuring that yes, the voice was addressing him. A young man stood before him, his face mostly concealed by a scarf and the hood of his parka. He was holding a tray with two coffees and a sandwich.

Mike blinked, "This is for me…?"

The young man pushed some snow off the bench and sat down, placing the coffees beside him. "Yeah, you looked pretty pathetic out here. I felt like doing a good deed today." He held out the sandwich, "Plus, I'm a little lonely."

Taking the sandwich carefully, Mike stared blankly at the person before him. "Lonely? I can relate to that…"

"What's your name?" he asked.

"… It's Mike. Yours?"

"Mello."

This was how Mello recruited the first member of his team. Since their initial encounter, Mike followed Mello around like a loyal puppy. He had no idea why this person wanted to give him a new chance in his life, but Mike didn't question it. He saw it as a sign from the heavens that life goes on, and he must go on with it. For happiness one needs security, but joy can spring like a flower even from the cliffs of despair.

As time went on, the two of them formed a close friendship. Mike didn't know much about Mello, but he gathered something about a mafia, something about 'branching off,' something about 'I'll show them all, I'll become the best.'

Mike's positivity and kindness played as a perfect foil to his new boss. Over the years, they recruited more and more people – Elli, Nick, some others in different locations. Mike remained Mello's right-hand man through it all.

A stronger believer of karma, Mike did whatever he could to help people he met. It was his way of thanking fate for sending Mello to him. This sort of pay-it-forward attitude was how he lived his life. So when he witnessed a group of people harassing a girl on the street, he knew he had to do something.

He had been sent on an errand to get some supplies. On his way back to the base, Mike heard a commotion and followed the sound. As he approached the gathering crowd, he saw that the group had formed a circle around two people – one was a man on the ground, and the other was a young woman standing over him.

Those gathered around were shouting things like;

 _You're a monster! You killed him! Someone call the cops!_

The young woman in the middle was being shoved; parts of her clothes were torn and her face was concealed by her own two hands.

She had brilliantly bright pink hair.

As Mike got closer, he noticed that she was saying something.

 _get away from me_ get away from me

 **get away** get away get away **get away from me**

get away _get away from me_

get away from me _please_

 **get away**

get away from me _**please**_

get away

 _get away from me_

She was trembling – but Mike couldn't tell if it was from fear or rage, or both. He knew he had to do something, anything, to help her. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and took out a gun (provided courtesy of Nick), shooting it into the air.

The crowd instantly quieted. Next, he took out a police badge (obtained courtesy of Elli) and made his way towards the middle.

"Everyone, back away!" His voice boomed, "I am a police officer. I will handle things from here, please leave the scene." Then he added, " **NOW.** "

As the mob began to disparse, he went over to the girl, who still had her hands obscuring her face.

"Hey, it's ok," he said in a whisper, "I'm not really a cop. But you gotta play along, alright? I'm gonna take your arm and pretend to lead you away. Do you understand?"

The young woman looked up but avoided his gaze. She had radiant ruby eyes, hidden slightly by her hair and a winter hat. She gave a small nod.

Mike took her by the arm lightly and, speaking loudly said, "I'm takin' you down to the precinct, missy!"

When they were a safe distance from the scene, and when the sound of police sirens was faint, Mike let go. The girl stepped back a few steps, looking down. She adjusted the hat on her head and wiped some blood from the back of her hand onto her dress. Mike didn't know whose blood it was, but before he could say anything, the girl ran off.

"Wait!" Mike called after her, "At least tell me your name..!" But she was already gone, faster than he had expected her to run.

A couple of days went by.

Mike was sitting in a pub, at a window-side table, with Nick. Mike could no longer go into coffee shops – they all reminded him of his sister. Nick insisted that they get drinks, so here they were, getting drinks.

"And so I told 'im, 'listen man, you're gonna pay up one way or another,'" Nick was recounting some story, waving his hand around dramatically. "And the bastard pulls a gun on me! Can you believe… that…?" Nick's face contorted into confusion as he looked out at the window behind Mike.

"Nick? What's wrong?" Mike put his beer down.

"Uh…" Nick pointed to the window, "I think that chick wants to tell you something?"

Mike spun around. The young woman from before had her hand pressed against the glass, staring at him.

"…I'll be right back," Mike said as he quickly got out of his seat and hurried out of the pub. The girl was waiting for him outside the door.

She had one hand behind her back, and was looking down again.

"Hello," Mike smiled warmly, "we meet again! Why'd you run off before?"

The girl didn't speak. Instead, she moved her hidden hand into sight, revealing a single yellow dandelion. She held it out to Mike.

Mike blinked. "Is that for me?" When the girl nodded slightly, he took the dandelion excitedly, smiling wider. "Why thank you! That's very thoughtful!"

The girl shuffled her feet a bit, then turned to go.

"Wait!" Mike held the weed to his chest, "Please, just tell me your name! I'm Mike."

"…Lucy," she said quietly.

"Lucy," he repeated. "Do you want to come in, Lucy? I can buy you a drink…!"

Lucy looked inside to the crowded pub and shook her head solemnly.

Mike scratched his head. "Well… Will I at least see you again?"

After giving it some thought, Lucy nodded. She then left as mysteriously as she had arrived at the pub.

Mike went back inside to the table. Nick shot him a funny look.

"The hell is that?" He asked, motioning to the dandelion in Mike's hand.

"Something very special," Mike said, taking his seat. "From someone very special."

As time went by, Lucy appeared more and more around Mike. She never said much, and he never minded. Eventually, she showed Mike the horns on her head, explaining that they make her different, and bad. That she hated them.

Later that day, Mike bought her a matching pair of purple silk ribbons, wrapped them around her horns carefully, and said she was perfect just the way she was.

Mello looked at last to Mike, who sat alongside Lucy on the far end of the couch. Mike gave him two thumbs up.

"So then," Mello continued, "here's what were doing: stocks."

Elli raised her hand. "How exactly does one _do_ stocks?"

Mello sighed, "We're going to be profiting off them."

"Wait," Nick said, "we're droppin' the crime stuff to buy treasury bonds? That sounds hella boring, no offense."

"Oh I can guarantee you," Mello smiled, "this is plenty illegal."

Mike shrugged, "I don't see what's so bad about doing legal stuff…"

Elli tilted her head, "So what exactly _are_ we doing?"

Mello took out a piece of paper and a red pen. On it, he wrote down three ticker symbols and some numbers.

"Basically," Mello said, "I have information that these stocks will increase by these percentages overnight."

"That's impossible." Nick shook his head, "You're going on a hunch?"

But the following morning, Bank of America stock, Pfizer stock, and Intel stock saw an increase of share worth. By the exact percentages that Mello predicted.

Thus the insider trading business had begun for the 'Manhattan Mafia.'


	3. IMPORTANT NOTE

Hello readers,

So originally, I had this story posted elsewhere, and I wanted to post it to FF as well. However, I use a lot of images, and this platform does not support them whatsoever. Unfortunately, they make a big part of the story.

If you're still interested in following, the story is under the _same name_ on Archive of Our Own and the author name is still Elise Rene :)

(Plus, there are a lot more chapters out on AO3 ;) )

Thank you!

-E


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